


Three Feet Ashore

by mechanicalclock



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:30:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalclock/pseuds/mechanicalclock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “It’s hard to say ‘the end,’” Leliana smiled, and Isabela snorted.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“It doesn’t always have to be so,” she winked at her. “Just ask Varric. If a story sells well, there’s all the chance in the world a sequel will be requested.”</i></p><p>In which captain Isabela arrives at Skyhold and old flames awaken, along with a few realizations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Feet Ashore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnchartedCloud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnchartedCloud/gifts).



> Written for a prompt:  
>  _Thanks to a letter by a certain dwarven author, the fabled Pirate Queen of the Eastern Seas arrives at Skyhold to join the efforts of the Inquisition. But before shipping out, she comes across an old lover and *her* old flame. There are few things in life Isabela enjoys more than sharing stories of past rendevous and making refined ladies blush with the skill of her silver tongue - much to Leliana's chagrin._
> 
> (Apart from the main relationships listed above, there are mentions of a few others, but they're all very brief, not graphic and serve the main story. I promise.)

When her horse finally reached the gates of Skyhold, Isabela was exhausted.

She had been offered a carriage, but she had declined, the decision that turned out to be unwise. She forgot that horses weren’t really like the ones on the covers of romance novels, galloping with fair maidens on their back, wind blowing through their hair. No; her horse had been stinky and restive, the constant bumps had made her ass hurt, and having to tie the animal to the tree every time she had needed to pee had been truly terrible. Not to mention she had to wear pants for this.

“Admiral Isabela,” she announced to the guard, sweeping the damp lock of hair from her forehead. “Just drop my name to anyone in charge, they are expecting me. And get someone to take my horse,” she slid off its back onto the solid ground far less gracefully than she intended. “I don’t want to see the beast again for at least two weeks.”

“Beast, huh,” the guard sent her a smile. “Perhaps it will get along well with other beasts in the stables, then.” The two guards next to him snorted and nodded solemnly. Isabela didn’t get the joke.

~*~*~*~

“Andraste’s perky nipples,” she said, as a tall horse with a skull topped with a few scraps of skin and forehead pierced by a sword was staring directly at her, presumably, judging from its black, hollow eyes, “what is this beast?”

“Ah,” the Inquisitor tipped on her toes to give the zombie horse some treat right from her palm, “it really is peculiar, isn’t it? It was a gift. A… strange one, that for sure, but. Do not look a gift horse in the mouth,” she smiled, her upper lip split by a nasty scar.

“What about the monstrous nug? A gift, too?” Isabela pointed at a head of a giant, horned plump nug standing stoically right next to the horse, not seeming to mind its dubious company. “Not technically a horse, so perhaps a little teeth-looking would be fine.”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “I don’t know. It behaves well. I don’t ride it because I couldn’t possibly reach the stirrups, but… I think it’s cute,” she crossed her arms on her chest. “Leliana takes care of it. She loves it.”

Leliana loves it, Isabela considered, smiling to her thoughts. She hasn’t seen Leliana in years. After meeting her in the company of the Hero of Ferelden for the first time, Isabela ran into her twice during her time with Hawke, which was an almost improbable coincidence by itself. She really was living in the heart of the action, that Leliana; it seemed no crisis in Thedas could happen without her these days. Left Hand of the Divine, as Varric informed her; “ _much, much more pleasant a person than the Right, or at least she’s kind enough to keep up appearances_ ”. Lady Nightingale sure wasn’t stopping at anything. Funny, really, how things like that seemed to just run in your blood after some time. When they fled Kirkwall, Isabela promised herself to just sail away and never look back; yet here she was, right in the middle of the world-ending mess, facing a zombie horse, accompanied by a short dwarven girl with a glowing hand, her attitude so firm and steady, in a way Isabela couldn’t achieve even if she tried. Not that she ever tried. Firmness didn’t pay off when you were constantly swaying on the waves.

 “We’ve got a meeting tomorrow afternoon,” the Inquisitor said, cleaning her hands. “My advisors and me. You should come, they will fill you in on the details regarding your job. Have a rest, or whatever you want, today, someone will show you to your chamber later,” she rubbed her forehead with her glowing hand.

“Thank you. I will be there tomorrow, my lady Herald.”

“No, no, please,” the Inquisitor waved her hands in protest. “Just call me Kisah. Please. These titles seem so inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Isabela quirked her eyebrow. The Inquisitor really did seem embarrassed, rubbing her hands together, gaze somewhere by her boots.  She really should have gotten used to that by now, but just a quick look at her – shaved head, ink on her temples and cheekbones, muscles bulging under her plain white shirt, no jewelry but leather boots of good quality – showed that back before all of this happened, she had been just a Carta soldier, someone to run errands and get into an occasional fight. Varric had informed Isabela of the Herald’s past; “ _of all people possible, the most holy Herald of Andraste is a Carta dwarf. She was a thug, ~~Rivaini~~ my dearest Isabela, born and raised in a shady alley behind a warehouse. A Cadash. I am certain I owe the Cadashes some money, but I am lucky she is such a young thing, just an uprising brawns of the operation, with no knowledge of the bookkeeping. I can only be hoping her family won’t drop by for a visit, and if they do – that they will forget about the old Varric in the rush of things. And I hope nobody but you reads this letter, but this hope is probably in vain._”

“It’s just, well. You deserve much more respect than me for your deeds, I just caught the wrong orb. And in different circumstances, I’d be calling you ‘my lady’, and you’d be calling me a snot.”

Isabela laughed, and the Inquisitor sent her another crooked smile. Her gaze swept over Isabela appreciatively, not daring, just admiring, the way only people in their early twenties did, the world their oyster et cetera. Huh. Isabela did dress to impress, but she had to bite her tongue not to retort with anything flirty out of habit (nine out of ten good conversations start with cleavage talk, a proven fact) – Kisah _was_ in her early twenties, after all.

She did smile back, though, content with the impression she’s made, content with the fact the more conservative of the noblemen and Chantry sisters were probably soon to get their panties in a twist about yet another controversy, ‘Three out of three most worshipped heroes of Thedas in the past decade openly choosing the company of their own gender, is the world really ending, because what are the odds’. Hawke would definitely appreciate, were she here. Isabela was wondering if Lady Nightingale appreciated it as well.

“I’d never call you a snot,” Isabela issued finally, bowing in front of Kisah with only a hint of lazy mockery. “In an unofficial setting, I’d be too afraid to get one of those fists in my face.”

“You’d have time to cover yourself before I get the stool to reach you.”

Isabela grinned. Kisah was good, this young thing with an ugly scar running across her upper lip and the shining hand pressed awkwardly to her side. Isabela wished her all luck, but it was easy to wish things if you weren’t directly affected by them. Pray to Andraste for the sake of the others, run away from your own troubles, the only good lesson she’s learned from Sebastian Vael, even though not one he’d want her to remember.

~*~*~*~

 “You haven’t aged a day, Rivaini,” Varric said, clinking their glasses together. Isabela scoffed, taking a sip of her beer. It was… actually, it was just a normal, regular beer, one she’s tasted too often in every tavern around the world. You’d think a holy enterprise would do better in the booze area.

“You’ve aged a bunch,” she retorted, sending Varric her most charming of smiles. “Look at you, you’ve got grey at the temples! Are you greying like that everywhere?”

“Not where it counts,” Varric smiled back at her, the crow feet at the corners of his eyes deeper than she remembered. “Just wait, it’s going to come for your dark, dreamy locks any day now.”

Isabela shuddered theatrically, taking a long sip from her mug. “It better not. I always thought I’d scare the grayness away.”

Not much luck in that area, sadly. She’s already found the first greying hair on her head and she still was surprised it took that long to come. She was aging, and it was undeniable, despite what Varric might have said. Deeper wrinkles on her forehead and by her lips when she smiled, hands, neck and elbows reminding her every day of the weight of years on her shoulders, eight more pounds along with a few more stretch marks, and the way her breath hitched during fights. How many years did they have, she and Varric, before the age would take its toll and they would become no match for deadly young Inquisitors with rippling muscles and huge swords?

“If anyone can do it, Rivaini,” Varric sent her a surprisingly warm smile over his beer mug, “it’s you.”

There were a lot of questions she could ask him. Why had he been captured by the Right and Left Hands of the Divine in the first place, why had he stuck with the Inquisition and hadn’t bailed first thing after the temple had exploded, why had he decided to entrust Isabela enough to invite her to join their efforts, where was Hawke and whether or not Varric has heard anything from her, if Anders was alive and if Merrill was finally back with Hawke, because Isabela’s never got a reply to that last letter she’d sent, although that one might have been her own fault – who expects mail to arrive anywhere from Llomeryn?

She didn’t ask any of them. Instead, she straightened her back against the chair, leaning back and casting her eye over the tavern. It was crowded, mostly mercenaries on a pass and the Skyhold workers, resting after a long day.

“Just one question, Varric,” she asked instead, “are you having more fun with the Inquisitor’s personal entourage than you were having with us? An honest answer.”

Varric barked a short laugh. “Not even slightly,” he squeezed her hand in a gesture so uncharacteristic of him she flinched. “Nothing can top getting shit-faced at the Hanged Man with my favorite Rivaini. And outplaying Broody and Blondie in cards, and explaining the rules to Daisy for the hundredth time. Maker,” Varric rubbed his forehead, “I recently caught myself missing even the Choir Boy, can you believe it? This is what nostalgia does to old dwarves.”

“Oh, that’s cute, Varric,” Isabela smacked, finishing her beer and gesturing for the waitress to bring them a refill. “Almost made me shed a tear.“

“Yeah. You saw me in my moment of weakness. But I know you miss them too. We had a blast, and I’m sure you don’t get that many kicks on your ship. Speaking of kicks,” Varric leaned in slightly, “I’ve contacted Hawke recently, you know.”

At least one mystery solved. Isabela’s heart started beating faster at the sound of a familiar name.

“I’m not going to bore you with the details, I know you don’t care much for what we do here in the long run. But the more I was thinking about it, the better I realized that nobody can help us as much as Hawke. So I contacted her. You’re the first one to know this.”

“And?”

“And she agreed to come,” Varric grinned. He emphasized with pounding his open palm on the table.

Isabela tried to imagine Hawke coming to Skyhold, meeting her on that unfamiliar ground, the first ‘hello’ after their hasty parting – maybe Merrill with her, wide-eyed and tightly covered in long sleeves and a high collar.

It was good of Varric to have told her. At least now her stay here had a clear time limit.

“It’s great,” she said instead. “You really miss her, don’t you?”

“Well, don’t _you?_ ” Varric asked.

~*~*~*~

The ambassador who smelled of good eastern perfume and had a great ass that even that frilly dress couldn’t completely hide served her coffee. She passed it to Isabela herself, small cup full of dense, black liquid.

Isabela didn’t drink a lot of coffee, mostly because it was hard to brew it on ships and in sleazy taverns, but she recognized good coffee when she saw it. She associated it mostly with the mansion full of walls covered in blue and gold, large sofas she sank into, and her husband making a series of _tsks_ and _hmph_ s when he felt the spoon clanked too loudly against the porcelain.

“Thank you,” Isabela smiled at the ambassador, who responded with a lopsided smile of her full, wide lips – too many crooked smiles in this fortress, too little time.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said, bowing her head. “Josephine Montilyet, ambassador and diplomat to the Inquisition.”

“Montilyet? Is it Antivan?”

Before Josephine managed to answer, the door swung once again and the Inquisitor entered the room, accompanied by a tall woman with red hair cropped by the jaw line that Isabela immediately recognized as Leliana.

Except her hair being an inch or two shorter than Isabela remembered, she didn’t change much, apart from the lines of her face getting sharper, the grey shadows under her eyes darker, a few crinkles around her mouth. Lanky and tall, her clothes most definitely hiding a strong, wired body even if marked by time. The time, Isabela thought, was much gentler to all of them than it could have.

It certainly was gentle to Cullen, who looked much healthier and well-groomed than he had during his Kirkwall days, not that she’d paid much attention to him back then. She was admittedly a little surprised that he was the head of the Inquisition’s military, both because of his sketchy past and, as far as she was concerned, his lack of experience in leading an army, but she was smart enough to know you never publically question decisions of short-haired women with ugly scars running down their cheeks and arms that could strangle a man without much effort.

The Inquisitor headed straight towards the war table, rolling her sleeves up to the elbows. There was an anchor tattoo on one of her muscular arms. Even Isabela didn’t have one, which, once she thought about it, was a tremendous waste. She wondered if the short dwarven girl has ever gone to the sea, if she’s ever heard its calling.

“Something to report?” the Inquisitor asked drily. Cullen cleared his throat, shooting Isabela a quick look.

“I think we better share it with you on another occasion, Inquisitor. We’re here to introduce… miss Isabela to her task.”

“Right,” the Inquisitor reflected, turning towards Isabela. Isabela was still holding the tiny cup of coffee in her hands and was wondering if she should get up, or if it was better to stay on the Inquisitor’s eye level.

“Don’t get up,” Kisah Cadash solved the problem for her. “I don’t have much to tell you, other than welcome you here once again. And even if I did, there is an urgent matter I have to take care of on the Northern coast, which is why I will be leaving Skyhold with a small team two mornings from now. You’ll have to arrange and consult everything concerning your… venture directly with my advisors. I hope it is fine with you.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It was polite to ask,” Kisah smiled at her.

“Right,” Isabela responded with as flirty a smile as she could. “What’s the matter at hand, then? I’ve been dying to know,” she said, getting comfortable in her armchair, “why you needed help of a wretched pirate of the Eastern seas so much that you let some dwarven scoundrel invite her to your headquarters? What is the top secret mission you do not want to deal with yourselves?”

“Isabela,” Leliana bowed her in short greeting. “First of all, I am glad to see you alive and healthy. Second of all, we are aware of your reputation as a captain. Which brings me…”

Isabela snorted, interrupting Leliana mid-sentence. She took a sip of the bitter coffee spiced with something that tasted like cardamom and chili.

“Reputation, right. Nobody here has any idea what kind of captain I am. All Varric knows about my nautical adventures is that I sank one ship, and spent six years searching for my good old boat. Well, some of you did, in fact, set a foot on the deck, but seeing the inside of the captain’s cabin while the ship is docked doesn’t really count as a proper sea experience.”

Leliana was too good of a spy to blush (so much must have happened since Isabela last saw her, with a prayer on her mouth, quiver full of arrows, and Orlesian smallclothes under her armor), but she shifted her shoulders. Josephine noticed, a careful glance and a lock of hair tucked behind her ear; oh, did she notice.

Leliana offered her a thin smile. “I wanted to start off with a compliment, captain. I am not trying to make a fool of you. As you’re probably suspecting, the nature of your profession is why we let Varric call for you. A phrase ‘trusted pirate’ might sound like an oxymoron, but since this is exactly who we need, we’ve decided to ask you for a favor.”

“How many people will be trying to kill me if I say ‘yes’?” Isabela asked cheerfully.

Now it was Josephine’s time to clear her throat. She looked pretty, golden dress a nice contrast against her dark skin, black curly hair in a tight bun. Isabela couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like with her hair let loose.

“Our business partners won’t try to kill you,” she said, Antivan accent heavy and her voice pleasant. “They are just as determined to seal the deal as we are. I will be frank with you, Captain. Your task will be to deliver the goods to them, and make a trade. As you are probably reckoning, the said goods are not exactly… legal. Most importantly, though, sir Kal Mallory has stated he will not deal with us unless we send someone familiar with the business.”

“Kal Mallory? That man hasn’t got a penny to his name and even less of a reputation.”

“And yet he came into possession of something that we need,” Josephine smiled charmingly. “Let me be clear, Captain. Your job isn’t the cleanest task in the world, but it is not dangerous. What you’d be delivering, while classified, is not of an international value, merely something that sir Mallory deems worthy. We are offering you a ship and a crew, protection, and coin, the total amount of which we will discuss later. Most importantly, after the business is dealt with you do not have to come back here. You are free to go where you please. We certainly hope you will accept our offer.”

Josephine voice was warm and thick like the coffee that she made, carefully pronounced syllables and a soothing timbre, but Isabela had no doubts that if she refused and tried to leave the room, she’d be gently steered back onto her comfortable armchair with another cup of coffee, this time maybe with a biscuit.

“A ship?” she said instead of everything else that was running through her mind. “Oh, that’s interesting. What kind of boat do you have to offer a greedy pirate like me? A carrack with a crew of lazy merchants and maneuverability of my aunt’s buttocks?”

Josephine smiled, this time surprising Isabela with a great deal of honesty, white teeth shining in her mouth and eyes crinkled. “You cannot possibly think I would sent you out of here in a carrack. A corvette, fifty-seven feet, eight guns, only men of sea on board and the minimum cargo. I am happy to discuss and correct all the details you fancy, captain.”

“Oh,” Isabela smiled widely, setting her coffee cup aside and getting up from the armchair, stretching slowly. “I am glad to see the lady ambassador knows her ships. Glad, and kind of bummed. Now I have to be careful when I make ship puns, they can’t possibly lack in accuracy.”

“Ah, but captain,” Josephine’s eyes definitely lingered by Isabela’s hips, “where’s the fun in lazy puns?”

          ~*~*~*~

As soon as the meeting was over and Isabela set her foot outside of the corridor into the main hall, she felt someone’s warm hand on her shoulder, gently stopping her from going. Of course.

“Can I speak to you at my office for a moment, captain?” asked lady Josephine Montilyet, who apparently knew both her ships and her diplomacy.

“Of course,” Isabela replied, “but only if you stop calling me ‘captain’. At least, not so officially. And not in this setting. ‘Isabela’ is fine.”

“Right. Isabela. If you’d follow me, please,” the ambassador said, and started walking towards her office, swaying her hips. Isabela did appreciate women who could strut properly, but not if layered dresses ruined the entire effect by showing the fabric and not the right parts bouncing in front of your eyes.

To Isabela’s not-quite-a-surprise, Leliana was already waiting in Josephine’s little office, arms crossed on her chest and her gaze as stern as before. Isabela wondered how many aliases preluded ‘Lady Nightingale’, and if it was the one which brought so much hardness into her eyes.

Isabela was already bored of all those conversations and was dreaming of a drink or three, so she decided to plump into the clients’ chair, throwing her legs over the armrest. She helped herself to a macaroon that was stocked in an even pyramid in a small bowl on Josephine’s desk. A bowl of cakes, a bouquet of only-slightly withering flowers, a neat pile of paper, clean arabesque carpet, golden drapes, a smart-looking bookcase. Josephine Montillyet, an Antivan diplomat who seemed to know Leliana from somewhere.

Isabela decided not to inquire – for now, at least. She’s lived long enough and saw enough women with common history to know when to inquire, and when to keep your mouth shut and wait for an evening full of wine, string music and a lazy, tingling atmosphere to inspire confessions.

“I’ll be frank with you,” Leliana interrupted Isabela’s very pleasant trail of thoughts full of wine, strings and heated massages, “I hope you understand all the conditions of the deal we’re offering you.”

“I know you’re going to fill me in anyway, so shoot, Lady Nightingale,” Isabela smiled at her. “Or sister Nightingale? Which do you prefer?”

“Leliana is fine, Isabela,” Leliana said, her eyebrows knitting slightly. Whoop, there it was, that slight crease between eyebrows Isabela liked so much. The best kind of balancing - being careful that the crease wouldn’t turn into a frown.

“I didn’t want to say it in front of the Inquisitor,” Leliana continued, “she’s read Varric’s book a few times and she’d be offended by the mere possibility we could question your motives.”

“And we’re not questioning anything,” Josephine reassured her, smiling politely.

“Is this a good guard, bad guard situation?” Isabela asked innocently, helping herself to second macaroon. They were quite good, even if lacked spice and caramel sugar. “Am I going to be disciplined, and then brought water and some chocolate? I’m too sober and too dressed for that.”

Leliana ignored her remark, but she noticed Josephine blinking once, twice, oh, did she notice things.

“We do not question you,” Leliana said instead, “but do be careful, Isabela, and do not think of outsmarting anyone here. I truly believe you are capable of that – but not in the long run. Now stick to yourself, take a rest, don’t snoop around, and wait for your ship. When you set out, no searching through the cargo, no thinking we won’t notice if a part of it is gone, nor that an open sea can swallow a whole ship without trace. And no running away,” Leliana was looking her directly in the eye, “before we say so. Are we clear, Isabela?”

“Oh, but lady Nightingale,” Isabela put her hand to her chest in a gesture of indignation, “I am wounded you even implied I would do such thing. I made a few mistakes in the past, but it’s all behind me now. When I come here for a task, I do the task. See,” she said, the third macaroon between her fingers, “I am not even questioning why you chose me for this job, someone who has never been associated with the Inquisition before, someone nobody  but a few brokenhearted lovers in a few faraway harbors will cry over were I to disappear. Not questioning that if a spy master and a diplomat say that the job is easy, it means it’s anything but.”

Leliana handled Isabela’s gaze. Josephine’s hand hasn’t trembled even once on the clipboard.

“But, this is what you get when you hire me. I collect the coin, and do not ask questions. If the cargo isn’t people, or… wasn’t people, you have my discretion, and my help.”

“Thank you,” Josephine smiled, “Varric said that doing business with you is nothing but pleasure.”

Isabela’s laugh rippled through the room. “Oh, but you have not yet had an opportunity to find out, sweetness. Just please, satisfy my curiosity about one single thing: is it possible our sweet lady ambassador here has some connections with the Antivan sea trade? _The_ Montilyets?”

“Yes,” Josephine confirmed. “The Montilyets indeed. Although, as you probably know, there’s not as much to our family name as there used to be.”

“Hm,” Isabela considered, looking at the macaroon in her hand. “This is the most unfortunate news. And I hope the situation will turn to your favor soon. There should be Montilyet family ships delivering sweets here so that you didn’t have to eat these bleak Orlesian imitations.”

“They are a little bleak, aren’t they?”

Isabela tilted her head. “Orlesian cream and powder gets boring pretty easily,” she said. “Sooner or later everyone starts dreaming about some spice and melting chocolate.”

Leliana was just staring at her. And Josephine, much to Isabela’s content, looked as if she has been eating bland Orlesian sweets far too long for an Antivan woman.

~*~*~*~

The first beer is just a warm-up, the second serves to put out the remnants of your thirst, and the third is usually a chaser.

The tavern was crowded tonight. Perhaps it was because of the presence of the Inquisitor, her small silhouette by the table in the corner, surrounded by constantly changing and colorful crowd of people. Herald and her trusted crew, the best of the best. Almost like in Kirkwall – no need for fake modesty if all of them managed to power through so much shit and stay alive all these years – only that in Kirkwall it was Isabela by the Main Shit-Stirrers’ table, and this time she was watching from the side, wondering when she managed to get that old.

Thedas had three heroes who were on everyone’s tongue in the past ten years, and it was the Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the Herald of Andraste. Isabela was on the right path to play a role, a small one but still, in the lives of all three of them. Ten years ago she certainly did not anticipate it, not to mention fifteen or twenty, not when her mother estimated Isabela’s worth in gold and not even when she was stealing a ship to sail away to distant, greater lands and it was much scarier and much less romantic than the pocket-size novels described.

Varric was sitting by the Inquisitor’s side this time. After mouthing a single hello, patting her on the back in a familiar gesture and buying her a beer, he flocked to the Hero’s Table. It was because he was going with her on the mission, something about the Carta, blah, blah. If they were discussing the Carta tonight, then Isabela was the Blackbeard. Collecting materials for his upcoming book perhaps; basking in the glory of the people he could later describe.

 The Herald’s crew. Not all of them were here tonight, of course. From what she managed to gather, the majority of them were older than Kisah, Isabela’s age or even older than that, the kind of people who know their place in the world and don’t go search for it in crowded taverns. Other than Varric, there was the mage with terrifyingly well-twirled mustache who smelled so much like a rich kid of an Altus that Isabela had promptly decided to avoid him like fire. An old Grey Warden who looked like he went through so much crap he didn’t even have energy to be sad. A thin bouncy elf with hair cut with blunt scissors, who looked like one of those girls that stole apples from the market stands and whom teenage Isabela was watching from under her eyelashes with curiosity while shopping with her mother, sting of unexplained jealousy in her chest and fire in her belly. She was loud and moving constantly and the Inquisitor didn’t take her eyes off her for more than five seconds at time, and Isabela’d be damned if it didn’t bring back quite a few memories.

“Why do they always take four people with them?” she asked the waitress, who just gazed at her in confusion, blinking. “Varric said it’s gonna be himself, the Inquisitor, the Seeker, the bald elf. Why is it always a four-people team? Why not five, or six?”

“One person always has the other’s back,” said someone, sitting on the stool next to her and gesturing at the waitress for a drink. “Five doesn’t make pairs and six is a crowd.”

Isabela glanced at her suddenly acquired companion, a Qunari man with an eye patch and without  a shirt, muscular arms that were probably twice the size of the loud elven girl’s waist, and wide grin on his face.

“The Iron Bull,” he introduced himself, although Isabela already connected the façade to the description she’s heard before. Qunari mercenary, leading a colorful band of misfits. Reports back to the Triumvirate, but would probably piss on the Tome of Koslun if challenged.

“Isabela,” she said, smiling at him. His eyes were alert and attentive.

“Oh, but I know,” he chuckled, taking the tankard placed in front of him and drinking half of it on one go. Isabela downed her whisky, observing his muscles shifting with the movement. “The fabled queen of the Eastern seas. Varric told us a lot about you.”

“Oh, I bet. As a shipless pirate wench who’d sell him for a cracker, no less?”

“Actually, it was all superlatives,” Iron Bull smiled, while the waitress was refilling Isabela’s drink. “But you know how it is. Time alters memories, and so on.”

“Hm,” Isabela shook her head. “I don’t know if I want to have a reputation of the queen of Eastern seas. It takes the pleasure out of boasting when you introduce yourself that way.”

“We should go join them,“ the Iron Bull pointed at the Inquisitor’s table.

“You go, I’m fine in here.”

“Come on. Everyone’s been secretly dying to ask you to sit with them, but they had no guts to do so.”

“But I like sitting here on my own,” Isabela tilted her head. “That way I can hope someone mistakes me for a travelling philosopher contemplating the wonders of the world. Or hit on me.”

Iron Bull barked a laugh, planting his hand on Isabela’s back.

“I know plenty of people who aren’t discouraged by a mere crowded table to hit on someone.”

The mustached mage was named Dorian. He tried to go all snarky on her when she questioned him and his motives, but just one glance with her eyebrow quirked made him shut up for the rest of the evening. The elven girl was named Sera and she welcomed Isabela with a shriek, a couple of curse words and a confession of undying admiration, and later her eyes kept wandering towards Isabela’s cleavage like there was some sort of magnetic force in question. Kisah’s face was soft and she was all smiles and tender, brief, absent touches to Sera’s bare shoulder. Iron Bull was dividing his attentions between tormenting the easily-offended mage and making sure Isabela’s cup was filled as well as each and every one of her comments punctuated with a laughter. She’s seen it a thousand and one times before and just as many times has she done it herself.

It was most bizarre to observe a group of people who you knew were making history drinking and laughing and sending each other gazes full of admiration, suspicion, lust, hope, and not be a part of them. Problems of the fabled queens of the eastern seas: how do you get a casual drink with people if you haven’t bled on them before?

~*~*~*~

The spot in the corner of the rampart, with no chamber window facing it and no tent in sight seemed like a perfect spot for morning exercise. Unsurprisingly so, she wasn’t the only person to hold this conviction.

“Hello to you, Lady Nightingale,” Isabela bended in a mocking bow, “fancy meeting you here this cloudy morning. I didn’t know revered spy masters had time to exercise with a stick anymore.”

Leliana turned around to face her, her chest moving up and down with heavy breath. She had her short hair secured behind her ears, a layer of sweat pearling on her forehead and on her chest. Her body was all lean muscles and no trace of fat, white skin scattered with freckles. A plain vest and pants lied tight on her toned, very slim body, narrow hips, flat chest, so very different from Isabela’s. She was gripping a long stick, probably in the midst of some balance exercises.

“Good morning to you too, Isabela,” Leliana said. “I’m glad to see you too, albeit a bit surprised you managed to leave the Iron Bull’s comfortable chambers so early.”

Isabela gasped, putting her hand to her chest. “Oh, my! Please, Leliana, have some mercy and faith in my dignity.”

Leliana lowered the stick. Then she smiled her thin smile, a net of crow feet at the delicate skin around her eyes. ”This is silly. Aren’t we too old to start our first conversation in, what, five years with bickering?” She stepped towards Isabela, and after short moment of hesitation drew her in for a brief, formal hug, their bodies barely touching. “I really am glad to see you well after all these years.”

“I wouldn’t call it bickering,” Isabela answered instead, “just a little bit of a warm-up. Just like what you’ve been doing now. You know,” she grinned lazily, “it really warms my heart to see you’re keeping in shape, even if these days you mostly kill people with pen and paper, and not arrows and daggers.”

“So, you came here to exercise as well?”

“Well, I’m obviously not here to _sp_ y on you, am I?”

“I just didn’t think you were one for morning routine,” Leliana’s eyes stopped at Isabela’s full hips. Isabela caught her gaze and smacked her lips.

“Oh, so you thought I got that good at combat just by sheer luck and willpower?” she asked. “It’s been years and years of morning routine, just like for the rest of us. I just happen to like booze, roasted meet and tiny cakes more than I like sweating my butt cheeks off in the grass. Speaking of which,” she quickly adjusted herself in an attack position, “do you care for a spar?”

She didn’t wait for an answer – one jump and she was right by Leliana’s side, aiming to kick her leg out from under her; but before she managed to do it, her arm was being twisted in a way she didn’t like at all and she was lying ass down on the grass.

She giggled, resting on her elbows. Leliana didn’t look taken aback at all.

“You are just delightful,” Isabela shook her head. Leliana allowed herself one tiny smirk. “Thank you for your lesson of humility. Just like you’d expect from the Left Hand of the Divine.”

“Isabela, please. Stop constantly referring to my Chantry career. I understand you think I am not fit for it. But some people do change.”

“Ouch,” Isabela smiled wider. “You certainly do change, Leliana. Each time I see you, you’re higher up the hierarchy, and with yet another layer of clothing. Which is a waste, if you ask me,” she punctuated her words with a shameless onceover starting at Leliana’s shapely buttocks. “I still remember when you had a much more revealing armor, a much less menacing alias and an Orlesian old flame of womanly nature on your back.”

Leliana’s eyes were still calm when she said, “the Orlesian old flame in question is long dead. So are those aliases, and I suspect the armors aren’t in the best condition either. But that’s just what happens if you choose the paths we chose, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ve burned just as many bridges yourself.”

“Oh, but it’s not the same thing,” Isabela said. “I did burn bridges, quite a lot of them, yes. But I always come out of the fires intact. Still the same, old Isabela. You don’t know where you’ll meet me next, but you very well know who. You… I think,” she tilted her head, “that when someone lets you go, they cannot be sure who they’ll see again.”

Leliana’s smile was surprisingly warm.

“I think you’re overestimating me, Captain.”

She helped Isabela get up from the ground. Isabela adjusted her tunic, and without even a hint of warning she knocked Leliana down onto the grass.

Leliana blinked in shock, but then she laughed, lowering down onto the ground.

“That cute little Antivan thing,” Isabela asked, “was the Leliana she first met the same Leliana I first met, or a different one altogether?”

Leliana hesitated for only a moment before answering. “An even younger one,” she said, “a ‘pretty thing’ for some people and a bard to other. With a much longer skirt, but much shorter temper.”

“No wonder she looks at you like that,” now it was Isabela’s turn to help Leliana up. “We both know how it is with those impressionable noble women, don’t we.”

“Oh, Isabela. It shows you haven’t spent a day on Orlesian court. Otherwise you’d know,” Leliana smiled a sweet little smile, “that a noble woman who knows her way at an Orlesian party would sell both you and me twice before we noticed, and in our nightgowns at that.”

~*~*~*~

Josephine sent her a letter through a servant.

_Dear Isabela,_

_In the light of our latest conversation and to show you the Inquisition’s hospitality, I would like to ask you to accompany me to see the ship we have chosen for you. If you accepted my offer, it would help us to make adjustments of your choice before you ship out. And I will certainly not deny I would greatly enjoy your company._

_Yours sincerely,  
Josephine Montilyet_

Isabela was used to girls just whispering profanities into her ear and feeling her up as an invitation for a quick tumble in bed, or elsewhere, really, not girls sending her formal notes that pretended to be all business-like; but a bit of change was always welcomed, and so Isabela dropped by Josephine’s little office in person to respond positively to her invitation.

If Leliana’s eyes were throwing more daggers at her than they had yesterday, this was surely just Isabela’s imagination. They were all adult and at least slightly mature women and if there was anything Leliana wanted to tell her, she would have done that. Isabela could bet there were two possibilities: Josephine and Leliana either used to fuck – or even _be fucking_ – back in their Orlesian days and it was a damn good fun, or they never resolved the tension and let it bottle up, but now that they met again, the cork was dangerously close to popping.

The harbor was crowded, clean and not at all like the harbors Isabela knew – too few pirates, whores and rats, too many casual citizens on casual walks, merchants and those tiny little white dogs.

Josephine was wearing a light green dress and holding a thin umbrella protecting her from the sun. The heels of her boots were clicking on the pavement and Isabela was wondering why a woman with such a magnificent pair of breasts insisted on buttoning her dresses all the way up.

“I must say, Isabela,” Josephine chatted her up, as they were making their way down the docks, “I am really, really excited to have met you. I was curious about you ever since I first heard about you after the whole… Kirkwall incident. I hope this isn’t too forward of me to say that, but the stories make you look like an adventure novel protagonist. A pirate who lost her ship because of a cause that was just, helping to save the world, meddling with the ancient relic, running away in haste one moment but returning to do the right thing the next. Were I a little girl when I read about you,” Josephine smirked, “I’d be dreaming to be just like you.”

Well, miss Montilyet, Isabela thought, savoring the view of sun shining through Josephine’s yellow umbrella and colors playing on her face, when I was little, I was dreaming to be just like you – rich, dressed up in colorful dresses, with mummy and daddy caring enough not to forget to feed me, or my very name.

“One word. Lice,” Isabela said. “I can’t count the times I had lice on all of my fingers. You wouldn’t want lice.”

Josephine giggled. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t. Alas, I didn’t understand it back then. I did give an, ah, romance novel kind of life a shoot. But it didn’t suit me.”

“Well, it always turns out that, at the end, there’s much less romance, gold and adventure than wet shoes, sleeping on the floor and being robbed.”

“And the disgusting Orlesian cakes,” Josephine added.

“What was your chosen adventure, then?” Isabela asked. “What could you have been doing in Orlais? Burglary? Smuggling? Dragon hunting… No,” Isabela exclaimed as everything clicked, “you were a bard, weren’t you? _That’s_ how you know Leliana.”

“You guessed correctly,” Josephine answered. “But please, let the details remain a mystery. I’d rather not discuss them.”

“I’m glad at least one mystery is solved,” Isabela said. “I can’t believe you confided this to me, though.”

“I knew you wouldn’t tell,” Josephine said in a light-hearted tone. “People who have a lot of secrets never reveal mine, because they know I could have theirs exposed in broad daylight with just one letter.”

“Was this a threat, lady Ambassador?”

“Oh,” Josephine smiled, tugging a lock of hair behind her ear, “I was merely showing off.”

Like shit she was. Isabela did feel threatened. And only slightly turned on.

“So, you and Leliana, in silk dresses, masks, and daggers by your garters,” she said. “Now that’s a vision. I’d sure like to know more.”

“There’s not much more to know, I’m afraid,” Josephine lied through her teeth with the same sweet facial expression, earning Isabela’s eternal respect. “We met during one ball, and we quickly became friends. We were in the same social circle, so we saw each other quite frequently. Our relationship did not go much deeper than chatting during banquets. Only later did we start exchanging letters, and our friendship developed. But,” Josephine glanced at Isabela with curiosity, “speaking of Leliana, I have no idea how you’ve met. She mentioned running into you when she was travelling with the Hero of Ferelden, but I never asked her for the details.”

Isabela’s lips stretched in a smile. Oh, Leliana. She made a profession out of lying, and yet.

Perhaps Isabela shouldn’t blabber. But Leliana should know better than to count on a pirate’s discretion. Pirates were always after one treasure or another and nothing could stop them from getting it, and this time the treasure was the view of Josephine’s face as she’ll be satisfying her curiosity.

“Oh, sweetness,” Isabela said, putting her hand on Josephine’s shoulder, “I’ll be more than glad to fill you in on the details.”

\----------

_“Zevran Arainai, you sneaky fucking bastard,” Isabela said, trying to wipe the blood from her forehead and most probably smearing it even more, “you could buy a girl a drink first, not go straight up to stealing her kills.”_

_“Oh, my dearest Isabela,” Zevran bowed, “I just couldn’t resist helping a damsel in distress.”_

_“Last time we saw each other, you were calling me a pirate wench. I’m not sure if I’m glad to be promoted to a damsel in your eyes. What are you doing in Denerim? And who are your lovely companions?” she asked, glancing at the people standing next to him. They didn’t look like Antivan Crows at all, which probably meant more trouble than if it was his usual crowd._

_Zevran was accompanied by two humans and one other elf. A red-haired woman with a bow and almost impossibly straight back, a tall, broad-shouldered man with curious eyes and an elf with black, curly hair in a bun and freckles scattered across his nose. All in all, a very attractive company, Isabela contested._

_“Oh, right. Leliana, Alistair, Alarel,” Zevran said, “this is Isabela, an old, trusted friend. Isabela, these are my current, ah, brothers in arms, and I’m afraid  this is all I can reveal for now.”_

_“Right,” Isabela nodded. “I don’t really care now, do I.” It was only partially true – she very much wanted to know if he was safe, but it’s not like she could just ask him that now. “We’ve already exchanged too many words, given that I didn’t get my kiss ‘hello’.”_

_Before Zevran leaned in to give her a chaste, quick peck on the cheek, he shot a quick glance towards the curly elf. The curly elf shifted, trying hard to seem as if he wasn’t at all jealous. Oh, Maker’s saggy ballsack. That was the most unexpected turn of events she could have anticipated._

_“Are you in a rush?” she asked, instead of a hundred other questions she wanted to ask. “Or do you care for a drink or two in a lovely company, such as myself? I’m quite charming without all the blood on,” she winked. She noticed the redhead blushing slightly. Oh, well. She tended to have this effect on people, but it was always appreciated if the affected ones were cute girls with faces and thighs of marble statues._

_“But of course,” said the curly elf in an unexpectedly melodic voice, a wide gap between his front teeth, “we’ll stay. I don’t decline drinks from such … lovely company,” he smiled. Oh but he was a charming one, she thought, glancing at Zevran, who was observing the situation with thinly veiled curiosity._

_The man called Alistair excused himself quite soon, telling them he needed to take care of their Mabari who was waiting by the Pearl – was Zevran really travelling with not only dogs, but also Fereldans now? – which left her in the company of her old lover, a handsome young man who, as all the signs indicated, was her old lover’s new lover, and a pretty redhead girl who quite obviously found Isabela attractive._

_Adding three bottles of Antivan finest to the equation, the night simply had to go in the direction Isabela certainly wasn’t anticipating when she woke up this morning._

_“I would certainly focus better on your question,” Isabela said, refilling their drinks, “if our dear Alarel here wasn’t distracting me by constantly staring at my tits.”_

_The elf’s eyes shot up instantly, but his gaze wasn’t apologetic at all._

_“I’m sorry. I will behave myself from now on,” he smiled. “Just let me tell you, you are beautiful, truly.”_

_“Well, you’re not so bad yourself,” Isabela winked. “Zevran clearly has a very good taste.”_

_Alarel chuckled. “He does.”_

_“And the way he looks at you… Makes a girl curious.”_

_”I’m sorry,” said the red-haired girl, “this is clearly a time for me to go. I will just…”_

_“Oh, but Leliana,” said Zevran, who, as Isabela found out a long time ago, was a wretched man with a very good reflex and very dubious morals who never, ever disappointed, “who said it was time for you to go?”_

_“Three’s a crowd,” Isabela said nonchalantly, “but four’s a feast.”_

_That night, Isabela managed to tick off  at least five items from her personal list of things-to-try._

_Four people in Isabela’s captain cabin was a bit of a crowd, but she’d be damned if she said it wasn’t a feast. It was mostly unexpected that the young, redhead archer was not only not shy at all, but also presented a set of very, very satisfying skills. Zevran’s lover was a mage and Isabela learnt a long time ago that if magic was to serve man, it should serve him in bed._

_In the morning, all three of them were gone, and without the haze of wine the whole situation seemed so unbelievable Isabela doubted it actually happened. But the confirmation came in the evening, personified by a redhead woman standing right by her ship, arms crossed on her chest._

_“Leliana?” Isabela asked, rising her brow. “What are you doing here?”_

_“I was wondering,” Leliana said, eyes determined, “if you were free tonight.”_

_“I am,” Isabela smiled, “what do you have in mind?”_

_Instead of answering, Leliana leaned in and kissed her, her body pressing tight against Isabela’s, her palms on Isabela’s hips. Isabela felt dizzy suddenly, as if she’s never been kissed by pretty girls with marble thighs before._

_“Pretty much the same thing that yesterday,” Leliana said breathless, breaking the kiss, “only perhaps just the two of us.”_

_“Oh,” Isabela teased, “I thought you have enjoyed yourself last night. Especially Zevran and that tongue trick of his.”_

_“Oh, I did,” Leliana smiled, “but that was last night, and you know what they say.”_

_“What do they say?”_

_“Men are good for one thing,” Leliana pushed her towards the ship, “and women are good for six.”_

\----------

Josephine’s mouth was parted, her cheeks flushed.

“I…” she exhaled, her fingers tightening on her little umbrella. “I was expecting something of that sort, just… not quite.”

“Well,” Isabela grinned, “I have no idea why Leliana hasn’t shared that story before. I sure was bragging around, ‘that time I scored the Hero of Ferelden, an ex-assassin and a wannabe Chantry sister on my own personal boat’.”

“I can see why you’d do that,” Josephine said. “But look, we’re almost here. I can’t wait to hear what you think of the ship.”

A ship might have been the thing on Josephine’s mind right now, Isabela thought, smiling at her, but not quite the ship that was docked in front of them.

~*~*~*~

Isabela fell into the tavern routine quite easily, following the familiar steps: buy a round, shoot a smile or two, lose in poker to a temperamental elf and remember to tip the waitress. There was routine, but there was no familiarity and it was because the Herald’s Rest was simply too clean.

Sera seemed to feel in a similar ways, bouncing from the walls and trailing her fingers across the tabletops astonished they did not stick nor leave a trace, that the beer didn’t have to be swallowed whole in order not to feel the taste of it. That you met the very same people over and over and they were all to be trusted, that nobody tried to snoop your money and poison your drink.  Unlike Isabela, though, she was blending in, getting used to things, and slowly trying to just appreciate that sometimes tavern chairs could be comfortable and not leave splinters in your thighs each time you try to shift.

 “I’d say, cards,” Sera smacked, putting the fresh tankards on their table, „but I always win, so it’s boring. Boooring.”

“You win because you cheat,” Isabela offered sweetly. And because Isabela just couldn’t possibly allow herself to win over her.

“Just what I said, innit,” Sera plumped onto the seat next to Isabela, leaning against her shoulder. “Boooooring.”

 “We can always go throw the frost flacons at Cullen’s pot plants,” the Iron Bull yawned, “or whatever it is you kids do this day.”

“It’s boring, too. It’s boring when Inky isn’t here,” Sera pouted, sinking deeper into Isabela’s cleavage.

“She’d just scold you and tell you to go to sleep,” Iron Bull teased.

“Yeah, and I’d tell her she’s no fun, and she’d call me a weasel and then she’d go do it anyway. Ah. It’s just dull when she’s not here.”

“Are you and her, you know, serious?” Isabela smirked at her.

Sera glanced up at her suspiciously. “Serious?”

“You know. If you’re at the stage of missing her when you’re apart, I’d say there’s some serious fire in here. Aren’t you afraid of Andraste’s holy judgment?”

But Sera didn’t pick up Isabela’s taunt, instead her brow furrowed.

“Is it so weird I miss her?” she asked. “I like her. She’s funny, she’s nice, has a great ass. She’s down here with us _,_ she gets stuff, she gets me. And it’s boring without her. So I miss her, a lot, yeah? It’s not weird.”

“It’s not,” Isabela admitted. Clearly, it wasn’t; not where you could sink into a person the same way you sunk into a new tavern chair, with a great credit of trust and not thinking your ship was anchored somewhere else.

~*~*~*~

When Isabela knocked on Josephine’s door, it was late. It was late, she’s had some wine, she was hungry, and it was Leliana that said: “Please, do come in.”

She pressed the doorknob with just a little hesitation, a box of chocolates wrapped in a pink paper in her hands.

“A bad time?” she asked, glancing at Leliana and Josephine sitting arm to arm in comfortable chairs by Josephine’s desk, a carafe of wine and some papers in front of them.

“No,” Leliana said, “nothing that cannot be postponed. Do you have business with Josie? I can leave you two alone.”

The way she said ‘Josie,’ each letter rounded on her tongue like a separate word in itself, sweetened by her Orlesian accent, spiced by affection. Beautiful, the way she recited a silent melody. Almost the way Merrill said ‘Hawke’ with that peculiar accentuation of the ‘aw’, traces of elvhen pronunciation and seas of love.

“No, I just,” Isabela said, suddenly feeling very out of place, which didn’t happen to her often,  “I wanted to give Josephine this little gift, because… I have bought too many Antivan sweets. I couldn’t handle the marzipan anymore. There’s the darkest chocolate, honey, chili, and real pieces of nuts. _Not_ nougat. ”

Josephine was glowing as Isabela was putting the chocolates on her desk.

“Oh Maker, thank you, Isabela,” she said, her fingers already working on the wrapping. “I never have time to indulge myself like that, and I have really missed good chocolate. Actually, though, your timing was splendid,” she said, opening the box to reveal twelve perfectly crafted pralines Isabela bought for a price probably too high considering she could achieve similar effects just with the miraculous working of her equally sweet tongue, both in conversational sense and in a more literal one. But it sure wasn’t disappointing to see Josephine holding the chocolate in her long, slender fingers. “Leliana has just brought me a letter from Zevran Arainai. I am sure you would like to know he is alive and well, with the Hero of Ferelden by his side.”

Isabela’s eyes met Leliana’s. She let her lips stretch in a smile.

“I wasn’t expecting it, given the trouble that seems to always follow him, but I’m really glad,” she said, hoping the magnitude of her relief wasn’t showing.

“Leliana said the same thing,” Josephine smiled. “You were good friends with him too, then?”

“You could say so,” Isabela nodded. She could see the tension in Leliana’s shoulders. Josephine was smiling as if she hasn’t heard the story Isabela told her by the ship. “We used to be kind of… involved, me and him. In bed and beyond,” she said, wondering why those words were escaping her mouth, “but it’s all ancient history now. Now,” she sighed, placing herself on the chair on the opposite side of the desk, “I am just glad he’s fine.”

“I can’t help but wonder, Isabela,” said Leliana, propping her elbow on the table and resting her cheek against her palm, “was there any hero in the history of modern Thedas that you haven’t bedded?”

“Leliana!” Josephine exclaimed, straightening in her chair like a string of a bow. “This was mostly impolite of you. I…”

“Oh, please,” Isabela waved her hand, “it takes much more to offend me. Say, Leliana,” she smiled, “what would you like to know? What floats your boat, hm? Men, women, both at the same time? Quality or quantity?”

“I don’t think this is the conversation we should be having right now,” Josephine protested, her cheeks reddening.

“What about Hawke?” Leliana asked. She hasn’t broken the eye contact with Isabela even once. Isabela was impressed.

“Hawke,” Isabela got more comfortable in her chair. “You could offer a girl some wine before you ask.”

There was a full glass in her hand before she managed to blink twice, and Leliana’s gaze was almost as daring as it was over ten years ago in the docks in Denerim. Oh, well. If there was anything Isabela loved more than pretty diplomats blushing and sweating in their chemise, it was power play twisted to her advantage.

\----------

_Hawke said she felt like a teenager, inviting them to her house for a little meeting when her mother was away. But Isabela, Fenris and Aveline still came in and drank the Amell family wine on the couch of Hawke’s living room – Hawke and Merrill’s living room? - the fruity taste making Isabela forget the wine actually went to her head._

_But Fenris and Aveline were gone for some time now, Aveline excusing herself with work in the morning and Fenris just giving some bullshit reason, not willing to admit he simply didn’t want to stay when Aveline wasn’t here. Isabela regretted she didn’t stop him from going. She was close to finally tempt him into her bed, get him out of some of his spikes and ordering him to leave some of them on. And after a bottle of wine, Fenris was more opened to suggestions._

_Isabela was drunk, a rush of wine in her head and fire in her stomach. Hawke and Merrill seemed to be in a similar condition, not wasted, but loosened up enough not to cringe when Isabela said:_

_“How is it, fucking in the same bed every night and then waking up together in the morning, still in the very same bed? Better for your sex life, or worse?”_

_“I don’t feel much difference,” said Hawke, while Merrill had her attentive, wary eyes fixed on Isabela ,“not with how good Merrill is in the sack, I don’t. Right? Say, Isabela, have you ever had a lover that enthusiastic before or after her?”_

_“Whoa,” Isabela grinned, taking a sip from her bottle, kind of bummed she could already see the bottom. “Is this some kind of power play, Hawke? You should ask kitten first, if she’s ready to have her case tossed like a glove to start a duel.”_

_Merrill rose her chin. “It wasn’t an invitation to a duel,” she said, “it was a compliment.”_

_Merrill loved Hawke, and Hawke loved her back, Isabela suddenly realized the simplest thing in the world with full clarity. Merrill, with huge green eyes, pale, slender and quiet, and Hawke, dark almond eyes, round belly and heavy tits and her mouth always saying her heart’s trouble. Were she a hero from a novel, she’d rip out the stars from the night sky to throw them under Merrill’s feet. And Merrill was always touching Hawke reflexively like she never wanted to be parted from her._

_It wasn’t really Isabela’s place to be in right now._

_“It was a compliment,” Hawke confirmed, her gaze a bit daring, “but I have a lot of other questions, Isabela, just like you. For example,” she smiled lazily, “who was on top when you were doing it if the both of you are… so…” Hawke’s voice hitched in her throat as she waved her hand in an undecipherable gesture._

_“Oh, my,” Isabela giggled, “my dear Hawke, you would not believe how flexible I am. In more ways than one.”_

_“Then show me,” Hawke said. “Merrill. Ask her to show me, please.”_

_Merrill smiled her sweet little smile, to which Isabela’s loins responded immediately._

_“Would you kindly, Isabela?” she asked._

_Isabela would lie if she said she’s never been imagining that. Well, perhaps her imagination did usually focus on herself going down on Hawke with Merrill’s fingers inside her, and it never started with Merrill giving her orders while Hawke was watching from an armchair, biting her lower lip. Imagination was one thing, pulling the anchor out and setting off was a whole different one._

_“We’ve talked about this. A lot,” said Merrill, as if she’s been trailing her thought process. “So, if only you’re willing, Isabela... don’t hesitate.”_

_“Have you ever seen me hesitating, kitten?” Isabela said, pulling at the string by her cleavage._

_“Not like that. Slower,” said Merrill, coming up to her and stroking her thigh, her fingers slender and delicate and cold as ice. “In fact,” she said, “come here, Hawke, and help her. There’s a lot of ribbon in her corset.”_

\----------

 “Satisfied?” Isabela asked, her chin reaching up as she glanced at Leliana.

“If this is a power play,” Josephine sighed, a forgotten chocolate melting between her fingertips and giving a girl ideas, “I am not sure who is winning, but I am sure I would like to back away when I still can.”

“But sweetness,” said Isabela, “I thought it was the diplomats’ job to fix the ties between parties. Besides,” she winked, “I’m sure you’ve been enjoying the ride.”

Josephine put the melting chocolate into her mouth. “That’s a different matter altogether.”

~*~*~*~

 “You’re late,” Isabela smiled at Leliana, in the middle of a stretch in Leliana’s favorite practice spot.

“I suppose I am,”  Leliana hesitantly put her stick onto the ground. “I am sorry for yesterday, Isabela. Too much wine, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?”

“That… accusation I have thrown your way,” she said. “Or the way I said it. It was unfair to you, and I am sorry.”

“Leliana,” Isabela said, lowering down to sit on the ground. Leliana slowly placed herself next to her. “It’s not an insult to me. I sleep with a lot of people, there, I said it. And it’s fun. And personally I don’t see where the insult is in stating that.”

“It’s… I know. But it wasn’t fair of me, to make you share that story.”

“The story?” Isabela smiled. “Listen, darling, if I didn’t want to share it, I wouldn’t.”

“Why did you, then?”

Isabela shifted her shoulders, glancing up onto the sky. “I don’t know. Because you asked, and Josephine was waiting eagerly for every next word coming out of my mouth. And I live to please. I told her about us, you know.”

“I know,” Leliana said. “She’s smitten by you. She really wanted to meet you, and I can tell you she’s not disappointed.”

“Well, that’s me,” Isabela grinned, “not disappointing. When a pretty girl has a certain image of you in her eyes, all it takes is to make sure she upholds it, and the rest is up to her imagination.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“That a short enough tunic and a few dirty stories can do magic,” Isabela said. “That’s it, really. A short tunic and dirty stories, and people may actually believe them one time or another.”

“Is this what you really think?” Leliana asked. Isabela snorted.

“Oh, sweet thing. Look at me. I am an adult woman who does push-ups in her jewelry, and spent half her life on the sea surrounded by men who can only be called strangers. There’s not as much fun on the sea as I make it seem, you know. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But it’s much less adventure and much more scrubbing the deck, figuring out the food rations and emptying potties into the water. You step ashore and you already think about leaving. Even if you know you are not leaving any time soon, you still _feel_ like you were. Ashore, you are left with no aces up your sleeve but a bunch of colored-up stories. So, when you notice that people have a certain image of you in their eyes, you uphold it. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Why do you say that?” Leliana asked quietly. “How can you say that? You took your life in your hands, and you steered it in a direction where you’re not dependant from anybody. How many people can say that about themselves? When I first met you,” she took a deep breath, “when I met you, the person I was back then fell in love with you. How could I not, if you were so certain, so strong, heading towards the course you set for yourself and not letting any hesitation pull you back? That week we spent in Denerim… I have fallen for you,” she said, “and you have no idea how much I have thought about you in times to come. Perhaps that’s not what you’d like to hear,” she smiled a thin smile, “but it was the thought of you that made me finally choose the path I chose. Chose what I felt was right.”

“Oh, sweet thing,” Isabela said, “what you have seen in Denerim was a story, too. A part of your own story at that. You have no idea how much it serves your case if people see you as a colorful sidekick in their own stories.”

“I… I disagree,” Leliana said, “although I do know what you mean.”

“You wrote your own story too, Lady Nightingale. A pretty thrilling one, at that.”

“Even if it is so,” Leliana said, “my stories are nothing like yours. In the end, all I feel when I look back, is this. A story. I do not feel a connection to who I was back then. I shed skins and I get new ones and it helps, it really does, but then,” she inhaled, “but then you meet people from your past. And you know they have an image of you in their head, an image of a person you no longer are. And it’s not just that you have changed. It’s that when you work hard to leave certain things behind you… meeting people you have once met is not a reunion, it cannot be called one.”

“It is a reunion for them,” Isabela said. “Isn’t it enough?”

“It’s not, if you have nothing to offer to them anymore.”

“If this is about Josephine, then I’m sure you know she loves you.”

“I know,” Leliana said, “because she has loved me before. And _before_ has finished one day, a few lifetimes before this one. And I know the story, both her and mine, would go on much better if we just stayed on our separate paths.”

“I think you’re over-thinking things.”

“You’re the one who said that,” Leliana smiled. “One foot ashore, the other in the water. This isn’t a place to build things, is it?”

Isabela was silent. Leliana gave her a side glance, the yard silent and quite pretty in the tender morning sun, orange freckles on Leliana’s arms, a lump in Isabela’s throat.

“But you know what they say,” Isabela elbowed her gently. “The worst stories are the ones without closure.”

\----------

_Merrill fell into her bed quickly and naturally, about two months after they first met each other, and about a month and a half after Isabela noticed Hawke’s eyes soften like a doe’s when she looks at Merrill and that Merrill can’t take her eyes off of Isabela’s cleavage._

_Then, there was a short period of tasting the waters, prolonged by the fact Isabela decided to join Hawke’s little venture and the evenings she usually spent trying to lure young gullible ladies, gentlemen and others into her treasure sesame of wonders, she spent killing the neighboring gangs, renegade apostates and local wild life, freezing her ass off on a beach that was basically a bandits’ hottest meeting spots, or drinking at the Hanged Man with company¸ a company who often stayed until late night hours and ended up crashing in Isabela’s little room without any implication of nightly shenanigans._

_Merrill was bad at cards but good at dice, she didn’t get Hawke’s jokes and she was nice to everyone in a way only someone who knows how the consequences of doing the opposite taste like. Her hands were as much elf’s and mage’s as they could get, slender, long fingers and delicate, soft wrists, bird-like bones sticking out and veins almost visible under the milk-white skin. Isabela couldn’t guess her exact age, it was hard with elves, they always looked that ambiguous age between the late twenties and early thirties until one day they were grey-haired, wrinkly grandmas with eyes sharper than their ears. Merrill spoke bubbly strings of thoughts wrapped in a singsong accent, sometimes only loosely connected, but nevertheless always lovely, trying to fit in with the humans and not-quite-an-elf surrounding her, knowing with sharp clarity she never will. She always wore long sleeves and had a pocket knife within her reach to make her enemies choke on their own boiling blood. She really didn’t realize Hawke was impressed with her the way only a girl from a small town can, fascination mixed with thirst, and she didn’t realize Isabela only allowed herself to be seduced if she wanted that to happen from the start._

_Isabela called her ‘kitten’ and her favorite part of the evening was the first touch of Merrill’s freezing-cold fingertips on her skin as she was untying her corset._

_“Say, Isabela,” she asked her one night, sheets tangled somewhere by their feet, “do you think Hawke likes women, too?”_

_“Kitten,” Isabela yawned, “you’re delightful, but are you kidding me right now? Of course she does. What’s more, Hawke wouldn’t look at a man even if he oiled himself up and put feathers between his butt cheeks.”_

_“Hm”, Merrill considered, and then, ”Hawke is brave. She’s a brave one. It’s not easy, losing people and losing places. You know that, right? And look how far she got. She’ll get even further, just give her time.”_

_You could say a lot of things about Isabela, but not that she wasn’t all about giving people time, and giving up her place if she needed to. After all, it was not wise occupying the land if the sea was calling you into its embrace within every cell of your skin._

\----------

 “It’s hard to say ‘the end,’” Leliana smiled, and Isabela snorted.

“It doesn’t have to always be so,” she winked at her. “Just ask Varric. If a story sells well, there’s all the chance in the world a sequel will be requested.”

~*~*~*~

 “You can say a lot of things about Tevinter,” Josephine said, handing Isabela a glass, “but they do know how to make wine.”

Isabela swished the wine in the glass, taking a sniff and coming to conclusion all wines smelled more or less the same. Only that, well, some did reek of a cheap alcohol while some, like this one, had a delicate scent of grapes and herbs.

“I could say a lot about Tevinter myself,” Isabela said, “that’s why I usually don’t buy any of their merchandise. You know, the usual Tevinter valuables. Wine, carpets, gold, slaves.”

Josephine chuckled, taking a sip from her glass. She looked mesmerizing in the dim light of the candle, draped in a cape in the color of the wine they were drinking. The cape was slipping from one of her shoulders, revealing a delicate dress made of a thin, golden material, and her hair was tied on the neck in a very loose bun, secured with a gold pin shining over her shapely ear. Isabela was once again wondering how she’d look like with her hair let loose; she imagined pulling the ribbon out from her hair and brushing the dark locks over her shoulders, kissing her neck right over the spine.

“It has already been in the basement,” Josephine interrupted Isabela’s trail of thoughts, “I avoid making deals with Tevinter as well. But alas, before I became more aware of the nature of my purchases, I have tasted quite a fair share of Tevene wine. And let me tell you – it would be a true loss to let it just lie on the shelf. Just taste, please.”

Isabela took a sip of the wine. It had a strong, characteristic taste, something fruity but heavy with a hint of herbs, and going straight to the head.

“It’s good,” Isabela said, feeling the wine warming up her chest, then her stomach, a truly deadly combination with Josephine in that small, golden dress, just an inch away from slipping down her shoulder, such an easy little thing to toss onto the ground. Isabela had had such women before, gold dresses, luxurious chocolates, wine older than the last living member of their families. Those women liked her coming up their windows at night with a dagger in her mouth and five more in her boots, so they could strip her out from every last of the weapons and her smallclothes and pretend they were on the cover of their favorite romance novel, that most scandalous one that they read with beetroot red cheeks during long trips in a carriage.

What was different about this moment now, was that Josephine probably had a taste of that life herself, climbing out of the windows and throwing daggers away on the floors like it was nothing, and she knew what was going through Isabela’s head. And she was playing her, giving her what she thought she wanted, namely the conviction it was Isabela who was in charge. _She knows I know she knows_ et cetera, et cetera, which didn’t matter in the end when you reached your goal.

But Josephine was now long past the daggers and smiles behind the masks; now her life was official letters, dresses that reached up her chin and an _obeisance_ at the end of the meeting. It fitted her – Josephine wasn’t made for shadows, narrow staircases and runaways in the middle of the night, she was made for big windows which let in all the sunlight, polite conversations, tiny canapés and letters with love poems in them. It wasn’t about letting the pirates in through your bedroom window, it was about trying to bring back the memories and light up all flames that she put out a long time ago, clinging to the hope they’re not all just ash. 

“I don’t know much about wine,” she decided, throwing her head back and emptying the glass in one go, putting it down on the desk with a clank. “As a wise person once said, there’s no difference if the wine was good or bad if you’re puking your guts out through a window at four in the morning.”

“A wise person indeed,” Josephine chuckled.

“Although,” Isabela said, “it’s definitely stronger and I dare say tastier than the piss in the tavern, for which I am grateful.”

“I just thought we could share a bottle of something good before you leave,” Josephine said, “as a thank you for the chocolates.”

“You’d take ‘a bottle of’ out from this sentence and I’d be even more content,” Isabela grinned at her.

Josephine’s lips formed a little ‘o’ as she blinked, considering. Isabela knew that Josephine thought, ‘why not do this,’ and she knew that she could kiss her now to help the doubts go away, because really, why not, if she was just one cape the color of wine away from the dream. How many times has she done this, how many times has she kissed women who were looking for something else entirely, taking a night off for a pirate with silver tongue and lots of gold on her body. She never took off her jewelry, too much flesh and too little sparkles to flash and distract, too much to pick up from the floor when she would leave at dawn from the very window she climbed in through, the way lovers from the dreams did. Staircases were for husbands and wives and for listening to someone’s steps in fluffy slippers, just one heartbeat away from bedroom doors, and thinking, ‘home’.

But it was Josephine playing her tonight, and Josephine did not kiss her, even though her hands did clutch on her armrests for a second. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes shut.

“Oh, Maker, if I am not getting old,” she said, her eyelids flicking back open, small smile on her lips. “I am getting old. Isabela,” she bowed her head, “it was a pleasure hosting you, truly. Our gates are always open for you, as long as, well, we have gates. It’s all so fragile, isn’t it?” she asked, touching the desk absently. “I don’t even know how much longer we are going to stay here.”

“You should enjoy while it lasts,” Isabela said, “although I don’t know much how you can enjoy being constantly buried in papers. But what do I know. Apparently, some people do enjoy that. Aveline always said it relaxed her. Helps her put meaning into what she does.”

“Well, she wasn’t wrong,” Josephine smiled. “I like being here. It’s nice to have… something of my own. I truly am glad Leliana invited me to work here with her.”

“She told me you met when you were young,” Isabela said, “and in Orlais, no less. How was it, I wonder? How do you meet someone in Orlais, of all places, as a young girl with a harp and remember them so well you still care to know their address all those years later?”

“Well,” Josephine said, “it was very ordinary, I am afraid.”

“It’s hard to believe,” Isabela winked at her. “She was a bard, you were a bard. It’s impossible. Where’s the murder, theft and romance?”

Josephine chuckled. Isabela refilled her wine glass. It was a good wine. Perhaps this was what the sunny countries were all about, wine, dubious politics, and women who looked breathtaking in gold.

~*~*~*~

Watch out for Faucher _, said a note written in Antivan, squeezed into Josephine’s hand by a white woman in a long, lilac dress and a tiny mask with row of garnets on its forehead, her ginger hair almost red in the light of the chandeliers._

_Another bard, no less, who knew Antivan at that; Josephine had no other choice but to trust her. She was here only as a guest today, so she didn’t know much about other participants, but she didn’t like Faucher anyway, his smile under the mask too honest for an Orlesian ball._

_The glass of wine he handed to her later got poured into a pot flower when nobody was looking, and it turned out to be the most wise decision, because later Faucher got dragged out from the ballroom followed by madam Paquette’s screams that he was trying to poison her. Josephine has dealt with madam Paquette a little bit in the past and the red-haired bard must have too, but she’s never seen her before._

_“The party always loses its glamour after the murder attempt,” said the red-haired girl in Antivan, bowing before Josephine with a smile, “but I’d be honored if I could have this dance.”_

_Josephine  put her hand on her palm, the touch of two gloved hands barely palpable on Josephine’s skin._

_The bard lead her into the crowd of spinning couples, the both of them catching step as soon as they stepped onto the dance floor, one, two, three, bow, a habit almost like second nature._

_“How did you know I was Antivan?” Josephine asked, glancing up at the strange woman with a  pretty smile of thin, pink lips and freckles scattering her collarbones._

_“I asked around, I guessed,” she said. Her Antivan was almost flawless, but her Orlesian accent very heavy. “I have been around a lot, but I have never seen you before.”_

_“I haven’t been here for that long,” Josephine answered, “and I can hardly believe you’re that much more experienced. You can’t be much older than me.”_

_The woman laughed. “Oh, mon colibri, you haven’t just asked a girl her age at an Orlesian court, have you?”_

_Josephine blushed. She was wondering if the woman could see all the emotions on her face under her little mask. She still had so much to learn; the game was ruthless if you didn’t play by the rules._

_“Tell me,” the woman continued, “are you enjoying yourself?”_

_“Just like you said,” Josephine rose her chin up, “the party is always dead after the murder attempt.”_

_“Unless there’s another murder planned,” said the bard, “which I do not know of… But perhaps you do? Hey, do not look away,” she smiled at Josephine, “you did not give yourself away, do not worry. But I’ve been around. I know how to recognize people of my profession.”_

_“I do not know about any other murder,” Josephine muttered, to which the woman laughed._

_“What a delightful little thing you are. So, if there’s not another murder in plans, it means this party is over already. Perhaps I am too bold, but,” she said, spinning Josephine around in the right moment, Josephine’s gold dress rotating in a broad circle, “what do you say we run away, out through the balcony window and over the fence, just like pirates, but the other way around? I could use getting out of a few layers of frill.’_

_“Aren’t you afraid,” Josephine said, her heart pounding, “I am the murderer who’s about to brighten up the party?”_

_“I could ask you the same thing,” the woman smiled, “alas, you never know in Orlais. Which has never stopped me,” Josephine felt her breath on her neck, “from getting some fun out of an otherwise boring evening.”_

_Her mother would probably pass out learning what her daughter was doing, Josephine thought, sneaking out of the ballroom with a mysterious red-haired woman, but not without snatching a bottle of champagne from the trail of an unsuspecting waiter first, much to her companion’s astonishment and a rippling laughter coming through the corridors, “oh, what a bold one we have here.”_

_They stepped out onto the balcony, wine leaves on the balustrade and crickets chirping among the bushes. It could not match the loud songs of the cicadas in Antiva on summer nights like this, but it still made Josephine think of Antivan poems. It went just like that: a balcony, a warm, starry night, mysterious women in lilac dresses and a lament of cicadas. Just how many words did the Antivans had for the song of cicadas; Josephine wondered if the woman knew even half of them._

_The woman took a sip of champagne straight out of the bottle, then passed it to Josephine. She could see the trace of her lipstick as she tipped it to her lips, the bubbly drink combined with her beating heart making her dizzy._

_The woman came closer, just a step away from Josephine, and slowly untied her mask. Josephine’s breath hitched from astonishment – that was the most unexpected thing that happened tonight. The woman was beautiful, big gray eyes in a triangular, freckled face with a small, perked nose and pink lips._

_Then the woman reached around Josephine’s head and untied her mask. Josephine could feel herself blushing and her heart was about to break her chest in half. The balcony smelled of flowers and a summer day and the woman smelled of expensive perfume._

_“I guessed well,” she said, “you are beautiful.”_

_Josephine said nothing. Instead, with the cicadas singing and her head light, she tipped on her toes and planted a kiss on the woman’s lips._

_Her companion’s eyes widened in astonishment, but just for a moment. Another moment later, Josephine was being pinned to the wall by a tall bard who tasted of champagne and smelled of flowery perfume and something like vervain._

_“What if I pulled out a dagger now?” the woman asked, breathing heavily against Josephine’s mouth._

_“You won’t,” Josephine said, slowly lowering herself down, “because you know I’d be first.”_

~*~*~*~

 “This isn’t quite how I remember our first rendezvous,” said Leliana, leaning against the doorframe. Isabela and Josephine turned around, startled.

“I’m sorry,” Leliana continued quietly. “I didn’t want to interrupt you, but I’ve heard my name and I… couldn’t help but overhear. Still,” she smiled, “I remember a few more balls, a few more conversations, an exchange of names, and that at one point I was wearing very non-alluring, white smallclothes.”

“Funnily enough,” Josephine’s eyes were soft, “my story was exactly in line with my memories.”

Tricky thing, memories; tricky thing, strong Tevene wine, beautiful ambassadors draped in gold and old lovers with soft lips, when “oh, is this all you’ve got, _mon trognon_ ” among the sweat-drenched bed sheets in humid little rooms seemed not so long ago at all. Tricky thing, women; six different ways to lure you in, six different ways to make you fall in love with them if only for one day, six different ways to screw you over and leave you without a penny. Tricky thing, women falling for women.

There were a lot of things she could do. She could finally kiss the ambassador, feel up her admittedly magnificent ass from under her soft dress. She could watch Leliana’s cheeks redden as she looks at the two of her past lovers kiss in the light of the candle, curvy bodies and dark, heavy locks. She could ask the both of them to fuck her in Josephine’s bed, without doubt among red silky sheets on a soft mattress. 

An even more tricky thing, to recognize when it’s time to go.

“What are you doing here?” asked Iron Bull half an hour later when she sat next to him on the stool, a pint in her hand, with full intention to flush the taste of the Tevene wine.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Was I supposed to wait naked in my bedroom or something? Sorry, but I can’t exactly tie _myself_ up.”

“No,” he said, giving her a side glance, “in all honesty, I was sure you’d be in lady Montilyet’s chamber tonight.”

“Why would I be?” Isabela asked. Sera elbowed her without any mercy, her bony elbow going in for the kill.

“She was cooing over you like a pigeon,” she said, “we thought you were gonna show her the way, is all.”

“As if,” Isabela shrugged.

“Pity,” Sera took a sip from her cup. “Second best arse in Skyhold. I would if I could, yeah. Anyhow,” she pursed her lips, “gonna miss you, Captain.”

“You could always join my crew,” Isabela joked poorly. “I’m always one man short for cleaning the deck.”

“Throw in some other perks, and I’ll think ‘bout it,” Sera yawned.

~*~*~*~

 “Oh, it’s good I caught you before you left, Rivaini,” said Varric, approaching her in the yard while she was placing her small luggage onto the carriage. “We’ve only just came back.”

“A successful mission?” she asked, smiling.

“As always. Listen,” Varric glanced at her with hesitation, “I know you’ve never thought you’d hear it from me, but… Don’t be a stranger, Riviani, will you? I could use having a pirate queen among the list of people I can proudly state I’m friends with.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she said. And then: “When is Hawke coming here?”

“Sometime next month, probably. Why? Are you planning to pop up for a teary reunion? You must tell me, I’ll have my quill ready.”

“I’ll think about it,” Isabela smiled. “Until next time, yeah? Don’t you die on me, Varric. There are more important things than ancient magisters and the ends of the world.”

“I know,” Varric winked at her. “Until next time, Rivaini.”


End file.
